


Every moment undone (implosions of beauty back to where we begun)

by little_fella (na_shao)



Series: Kalopsia [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry cloud Credence, Graves is emotionally constipated, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Still magical universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 01:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: "Why are you handing me this?” Credence mumbles with his cigarette between his lips as he points at the sweater Graves is offering, dark eyebrow arched; the floor under the soles of his shoes feels incoherent, as if asphalt cracks were being pushed apart in every direction. ”I thought you hated my guts.””When did I say that?” Graves grumbles back, arm still stretched out with the material clenched between the flesh-shaped tan of his fingers.





	Every moment undone (implosions of beauty back to where we begun)

**Author's Note:**

> I can never do things in a linear way, can I...? 
> 
> Here we go, starting this new AU with a prompt I got on tumblr— "here, take my sweater."
> 
>  _Kalopsia_ takes place in a modern setting but still is set in the wizarding world.
> 
> It's being written at the moment, you can definitely expect updates soon, hohoho.
> 
> In the meantime, please enjoy this!

__

_The rough plaster of these walls really is horrifically ugly—_

”Why are you handing me this?” Credence mumbles with his cigarette between his lips as he points at the sweater Graves is offering, dark eyebrow arched; the floor under the soles of his shoes feels incoherent, as if asphalt cracks were being pushed apart in every direction. ”I thought you hated my guts.”

”When did I say that?” Graves grumbles back, arm still stretched out with the material clenched between the flesh-shaped tan of his fingers.

He can’t stop staring, for a moment, at the milky skin with a map of dark freckles exposed by the slouchy neckline of the wool sweater Credence is wearing, at the cigarette cradled between his reddened ﬁngers.

”When you made sure to be _extra unpleasant_ every single day of your presence here?”

Graves frowns, and there’s light seeping into the alley where the shop is located; golden and iridescent, almost glowing all over them. Credence scrubs at his eyes, and he’s scrubbing so hard, so damn hard that Percival wonders if he’s trying to erase something from his eyes; anything, anything, or the world in itself.

”I was never _unpleasant—_ come on, you’re the one who’s _so—_ ” and he waves his hands in the air, ” _obnoxious._ ”

Credence chuckles bitterly; _if only you knew why, Graves, if only you knew why,_ and the thought is a deeper blue, a raw silver, a clarity Credence feels like he can’t carry anymore.

”We don’t have the same definition of unpleasant, then.”

”Will you take the _goddamn sweater,_ Credence?”

Credence rolls his eyes, lets out a sigh. ”You’re definitely so charming, Percival, that’s for sure.” He rolls the cigarette between his fingers as smoke curls in the air, staring at the glowing tip of it through hooded eyes. ”I’m fine. You don’t have to be agreeable for Theseus’ sake, you know.”

_What do we lose to recover ourselves?_

There’s a static charge of particles and dust in the wake of the rays of light that are blessing the ground, sleeves of fractured whites. Credence can’t stop looking, can’t stop being magnetized by how simple things can be, how easy the cigarette smoke swirls around his bandaged fingers and the cut edges of his ribs.

How easy it would be to crumple to the ground and let himself be— how easy, exactly, not to cease being but to recede to a time of unknown pains and warmer smiles.

_Our soul and mind, our memories and ghosts of a heart?_

Smoking an idle cigarette seemed like a good idea at the time, right until Percival Graves showed up on the doorstep to throw this day off, gnawing the mood to spit and sawdust— making all the barriers and hopes Credence had managed to gather around himself shatter to the ground.

It’s an anger that scorches, that simmers, _that stays._ It’s waiting and sometimes gets soft, sometimes gets hot; as if there were an explosion about to go off in the middle of his ribs, breathing in the pulmonary cavities and taking his breath away.

Percival Graves, stitched into the intricate web of his worst nightmare, whom Credence just wishes he could paint in blues and greens and golden hues to trace a hopeful future and not drown in matte black clouds backlit with raw grayness and hot tears.

Percival Graves and the possible outline of his slurring words and stumbling legs and gripping hands on a passionate evening, Credence’s throat in a clench of callous fingers and blunt nails— the stub of his cigarette and a kiss on his forehead, behind his ear, along the bumpy, raw curve of his right knee.

Would that be clawing out the terms of their love? A soft, luminous moment before it’s stolen by time yet again, before it fades away, before cheeks made as fragile as cigarette paper recover their dry patches of skin and fear kicks back in.

Love—

_If only._

If only there was love in there; love to spare. If only he could persuade himself that there was, that there was anything else.

Anything _at all_ rather than this darkness.

Percival’s fingers twitch around the fistful of sweater at the sight before him— Credence’s already pale skin turns ghostly white; it reminds him of his own face when he took a first good look at himself at the hospital, holes and gashes and bruises and burns— everything; he had suffered everything _(headaches slow breathing panic attacks blood loss teeth and nails pulled)._

The welts that run across his palm sting but he barely feels them anymore; time has passed; so much time has passed and yet Credence is still here, stumbling, falling, revolving. He clenches his hands into fists for a fleeting moment; _one two three_ release.

“Are you _blind?_ ” he lets out, anger soaking into his words. “I’m already wearing a sweater.”

He tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach, and Percival looks at him as if seeing his younger man clearly for the first time; Credence feels like he can’t breathe, a vice around his lungs, iron and silver and melting glass.

“I may be slower ever since— _what happened,_ but I’m nowhere near _stupid,_ Credence,” Percival manages to say through gritted teeth, and Credence can hear the patience bleeding out of his words; he should be pleased at that fact, but it only makes him more frustrated and he hates the fact that it even does.

 _What happened?_ Credence thinks, _I know what happened. Of course you don’t remember that._

Percival ends up sitting next to the younger man, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. He’s leaning on the mound of scar tissue, stretched and sensitive, but he doesn’t say anything— takes comfort in feeling its presence if it means he’s alive. He feels like he has aged a dozen years since getting out of bed, and that might be the worst part— worse than having Credence gaze at him with dark flashes of an angry storm, worse than nodding off the pain to pretend his body isn’t a mess of lost connections and severed synapses.

They lock gazes until Credence’s end of cigarette becomes too heavy, ashes scattering on the front of his jeans _(looks like snow; dead, plague-bringing snow),_ until Percival stops staring at him brushing the white dust away, stops feeling for Credence’s dark green magic.

The dust is settling softly on the asphalt while the sun is peeking through the trees and concrete stripes of buildings and smoke is attacking his lungs, the anger in his chest expanding before finding somewhere to hide between muscles and veins, blood and pleural fluid. _Won’t you stop thinking for a while? Won’t you stop being haunted for a bit of time?_

“Look, I’m fine—”

“Take it.”

It’s automatic, how defenses kick in and build up in front of him. “Theseus isn’t my mother, you can tell him—”

“ _Just take the goddamn sweater,_ Credence,” Graves mumbles, and shadows bruise deep beneath his eyes. “I don’t want you to get cold.”

It’s not about Theseus or Newt making sure he’s alright, this time; it’s about Graves _caring for him._

Credence didn’t expect it to be a straight arrow to his chest, spiking between his ribs as it ascends; how he knows Graves feel him grow silent under the wash of information.

He breathes.

The fists Credence was keeping on his lap uncurl, fingers seeing light again— flowers of sorts, unbent, unravelling and blossoming; and they reach up and out to pull at the front of the sweater offered by the older man, twisting and losing themselves in the rough, warm expanse of fabric.

He pulls it closer, senses the swirls of warmth and magic running along the seams; can still feel every inch of Graves’ bare hands holding it.

“Thank you,” Credence manages, voice slightly raspy. His own heart stops, skids, light to the left.

It’s just the sun hitting Graves’ hair, now, golden sandstorms drowned in gasoline, butterfly-like flicks of glitter and shrunken strands of black liquid.

For the first time in years, the anger in Credence’s throat recedes.

**Author's Note:**

> You can come scream at me on tumblr: angryzilla.tumblr.com
> 
> I don't bite, I promise!


End file.
